


Small Favours

by lategoodbye



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Peter Jakes tried returning the favour and one time it was the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Favours

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Beth, without whose help all my fic would be riddled with embarrassing mistakes, and to Rose, who has to suffer through first drafts.

„What's this?“

When Morse looks up from his typing work, another cup has materialised on his desk. The place is getting seriously cramped now. Three cups, one empty, one abandoned, one still steaming, make it rather difficult to keep track of both his notes and the typewriter's keys. Already he's had to use correction tape twice, not to mention the rather embarrassing visit from Bright and the subsequent lecture on the importance of keeping one's workplace tidy and organised. 

“Uh,” Strange seems unsure as to how a fourth cup of tea has come to find its way into his hands. Its predecessors give a sympathetic rattle as he deposits the cup and saucer on top of a handwritten letter.

“Looked like you could do with it. Always nice to have a cuppa by your side. Keeps your spirits up!” If he's not entirely convinced by his own little speech it's probably due to Morse's utter lack of gratitude.

“The last thing I need is more tea,” he exclaims as he unsuccessfully tries to free the letter from where it's trapped underneath the precariously wobbling cup. “Can't you see I've work to do?” 

He follows Strange's gaze to where Jakes is sitting at his own desk, still hunched over that crossword he's been trying to solve for more than half an hour now. 

“There!” he points, rather accusingly. “I'm sure Sergeant Jakes would appreciate a nice cup of tea.”

Strange hesitates for a moment longer, then shrugs to himself. As the cup switches desks, Jakes's only reply is a most unbecoming scowl into Morse's general direction.

* * * 

“Another, then?” Jakes asks, voice all silk and promise as he downs what's left of his third pint. They're at the White Horse, long after Thursday has left for home, although why Morse has stayed behind he isn't entirely sure. And there's something else that's bothering him:

“Are you sure it's your round?”

He doesn't exactly want to ask, gift horse and all, but this isn't Strange, who he can rely on to keep tabs for him. This is Peter Jakes and he's not sure what's behind this sudden change of heart.

“You're not supposed to keep count, are you?” Jakes now says, a frown on his lips and one of his bony knees nervously bouncing up and down beneath the table. Morse is certain he's onto something.

“Yet that's exactly what I've seen you do,” he says, and he's reminded of the way Jakes pondered the coins in his hand the last time he made his way over to the bar to pay for another round of ales. Now his friendliness has turned into impatience, and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes has become entirely too intense to feel in any way enticing.

“Look, do you want another pint or not?”

There's a gift horse and there's Peter Jakes trying to bully him into enjoying his company. Both have lost much of their charm.

“Actually, if it's all the same, I think I'm going to push off.”

Morse shrugs into his coat and throws his empty pint one last, woeful glance before he nods his goodbyes.

“Your loss,” he hears Jakes mutter between shaky exhales of cigarette smoke.

* * * 

“You drive.”

He throws him the keys to the Jag, and Morse barely manages to catch them before they splash into a puddle and make a mess of his trouser legs.

“What's brought that on?” Morse asks. He's busy fiddling with the keys, and it takes him a moment to unlock the car. 

“Nothing,” Jakes shrugs, his lips drawn into a thin, humourless line. “Just not feeling like driving today, alright?”

They both share a soft spot for the temperamental, old saloon; but Jakes handles the Mark 1 far better, Morse has to give him that. It makes it all the more surprising that he would forego the privilege of his higher rank and voluntarily take the co-driver's seat.

“Really? All the way to Didcot?” Morse finds himself asking a little while later, after they've left Cowley far behind and the uncomfortable silence between them has turned into a distraction rather than a reprieve.

“Yeah.”

“And back?”

Jakes seems unconcerned but he hesitates a moment too long for the reply to sound natural.

“Sure.”

His fingers twitch toward the pack of cigarettes in his pocket but he knows as well as Morse that he can't light up until they've reached their destination.

“What?” Morse asks when an exasperated sigh prompts him into turning his head. A tug of the steering wheel sends the Jaguar into a lazy swerve.

“You've missed a sign.”

Now it's Morse's turn to frown.

“No, I haven't.” 

Jakes remains unimpressed, but so does Morse:

“You wanted me to drive!”

Another half an hour passes until they're on speaking terms again.

* * * 

Some way or another they've ended up in Morse's flat. It's only ever been a matter of time, really.

“So. Opera, yeah?” Jakes says from where he's lounging in his chair, empty glass of whisky still in one hand and the other holding on to his cigarette. “Been thinking about giving it a go myself.”

Morse, feet bare and shirt-sleeves rolled up, looks up from where he's sitting on the ground amidst a sizeable collection of classical records. 

“Have you?” he asks, and abandons his task of choosing another piece of music for the both of them to listen to.

“Sure. I've always quite liked … uh … Mozart.”

Jakes nods towards where the final part of a complete recording of Aida is playing softly on Morse's record player. It's to the mournful tune of 'O terra, addio' that Morse decides to indulge him.

“Really, what's your favourite?”

The innocent question has Jakes stumped. He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, all in one abrupt motion.

“You know. Opera,” he says but all Morse can concentrate on is the hint of tongue darting out between Jakes's lips to taste something of the smoke he's just exhaled in a rush of excitement. It's a sight that is far more tantalising than anything Jakes has thought up for him in the past few days. 

So, finally, Morse decides to return the favour.

“You don't have to do any of this, you do know that, right?”

Records temporarily forgotten, Morse pulls himself up and closes what little space there is between them. 

It's certainly not what Jakes expects.

“Say what?” he asks, and for once his face has lost much of its carefully calculated air of confidence. He seems younger that way, an entirely different person, and Morse finds his curiosity grow into resolve. 

There's one last thing, however.

“I don't even like tea all that much,” he explains, although he tries to keep the gloating to a bare minimum. This is supposed to be an attempt at seduction, after all. “I prefer coffee. And I didn't miss that sign; I merely decided to ignore it.” Another few words and he's standing in front of him. “Oh, and it's Verdi, not Mozart.”

Jakes sits up and folds his arms defiantly in front of his body.

“Look, I was only trying to-”

“I know.”

It's then that Morse leans down and cuts him off with a kiss.

* * * 

When the sound of the boiling kettle wakes him early the following morning the smell of coffee and stale cigarette smoke lingers even after Jakes has long gone. 


End file.
